‘Where did she say she was going?’
‘To see Rainmayr.’
‘Who?’
‘Herr Rainmayr — he’s an artist. She modelled for him.’ As Rheinhardt was writing the name down, Zeiler added: ‘But it wouldn’t have been him, inspector. Not Herr Rainmayr.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘She’s been going to see him for years. Besides, he’s a decent man. He once paid for a specialist to see Trude when she was very ill.’
Rheinhardt grimaced.
‘I know this is difficult, Herr Zeiler, but …’
‘You want to know if he had relations with her, if that was part of their arrangement?’ Zeiler flicked some ash onto the floor. ‘I don’t know, inspector. Like I said, I didn’t ask.’
‘Did you suspect …’ Rheinhardt’s sentence trailed off. Zeiler was not going to share his thoughts on the matter. ‘Do you know where Herr Rainmayr lives?’
‘Yes. He has a studio somewhere in Lange Gasse.’
7
HAUSSMANN MARCHED PAST CARYATIDS holding up lintels and stucco facades crowded with putti. The rooftops seemed to be teeming with activity: statues of fabulous creatures, goddesses and legendary heroes disporting themselves against a darkening sky. He had spent all day searching the city for shops that sold the silver-acorn hatpin. Not one of the milliners or jewellers in the first district had recognised the design. Standing on a corner, Haussmann consulted his crumpled list of addresses.
How could he be expected to find all the distributors of hatpins in Vienna? Milliners, jewellers, stallholders, street vendors, junk shops — there were simply too many possibilities. Further, there was no evidence to suggest that the murderer had purchased the acorn hatpin recently. It might have been in his possession for years, a family heirloom belonging to his great-grandmother!
Haussmann crossed the Hoher Markt — an open square dominated by a massive fountain which commemorated the marriage of Mary and Joseph. The holy couple were protected by angels and a bronze baldachin resting on four lofty Corinthian columns. The entire edifice was finished with a radiant gilded sun, the upper spokes of which glinted with rays emanating from the sinking original.
In due course, Haussmann arrived at his destination:
It was a modest establishment. A small shop space, some dusty display cabinets filled with unimpressive paste jewellery, moth-eaten drapes, and a counter behind which sat a diminutive balding man with unremarkable features and steel-rimmed spectacles. He stood as Haussmann entered.
‘Good afternoon, sir.’
‘Herr Jaufenthaler?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good afternoon.’ Weary of trading pleasantries, Haussmann asked bluntly: ‘Do you sell hatpins like this one?’
He placed the silver-acorn hatpin on the counter.
Herr Jaufenthaler picked it up and replied: ‘Unfortunately, I haven’t got any more of these, sir. Sold out. But I have something very similar about the same price. If you’d care to look in the cabinet by the door?’
Haussmann — disbelieving — repeated his question.
‘You’re quite sure?’ Haussmann pointed across the counter. ‘The hatpins you sold were just like that?’
‘Identical.’ The jeweller looked at Haussmann suspiciously.
Haussmann showed his identification.
‘Security office?’ said Herr Jaufenthaler. ‘I don’t understand. I can assure you, the hatpins that I sold weren’t stolen. I got them from Krawczyk, my Polish supplier. He’s a devout Catholic — he wouldn’t have accepted stolen goods.’
Haussmann raised his hand.
‘I’m not accusing you of anything, Herr Jaufenthaler. I’d just like to ask you a few questions. Now, can you remember which customers purchased your acorn hatpins?’
Herr Jaufenthaler thought for a few moments before replying.
‘I took five off Krawczyk. I didn’t take
‘A gentleman?’
‘Yes. A gentleman.’
‘What was he like?’
‘Tall. Dark hair. Well-mannered.’
‘Would you recognise him if you saw him again?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘When did he buy the hatpin?’
‘About three weeks ago. I can check my books if you want?’
‘Have you seen him since?’
‘No.’
‘Did Krawczyk supply these pins to any other shops?’
‘Well, you’d have to ask him.’
‘Herr Jaufenthaler,’ said Haussmann. ‘I am afraid I must ask you to come with me to the Schottenring station in order to make a statement.’
‘Statement!’ Herr Jaufenthaler cried. ‘You’re acting as if someone’s been murdered!’
‘They have,’ said Haussmann.
‘What?’ Jaufenthaler laughed. ‘With a hatpin?’
‘Yes,’ replied Haussmann. ‘The one you are holding.’
The smile vanished from Herr Jaufenthaler’s face as he dropped the hatpin onto the counter, his face crumpling in disgust.
8
‘SO,’ SAID LIEBERMANN. ‘HAS anyone else seen your doppelganger?’
‘You think I imagined it all, don’t you?’ said Erstweiler. ‘You think I am insane!’
Liebermann was still considering how he might respond when Herr Erstweiler added: ‘Forgive my impertinence, Herr doctor, but you are evidently trying to formulate a diplomatic answer. Please don’t tax your brain on my account — it really isn’t necessary. I am fully aware of how ridiculous everything I have said sounds. Indeed, I would think you a peculiar representative of your profession if you didn’t think my doppelganger anything but a figment of my imagination. As I’ve already said, I would be relieved to discover that I am mad. Oh, how comforting, to be assured that this creature, this devil in my own shape was nothing but a hallucination, and that this terrible sense of foreboding was a piece of harmless self-deception.’
